


Plagiarism

by Zhie



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Academia, Bunniverse, Cuddling & Snuggling, Multi, Polygamy, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 05:27:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12314664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/pseuds/Zhie
Summary: Fingon's first attempts at teaching are not as he expected them to be.  Erestor and Glorfindel get to see Fingon when he is angry, and it is not what they expected, either.





	Plagiarism

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnnEllspethRaven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnEllspethRaven/gifts).



“This is the third one!” Fingon threw down his quill and ran a hand through his hair. “What part of ‘explain in your own words’ do they not fucking get?”

“At least the need for the lecture on avoiding plagiarism is gaining statistical support?”

Fingon rewarded Glorfindel with a withering look. “Please tell me this is a fluke. I want to be comforted by the thought that they are just testing me to see where I draw the line in the sand.”

“I wish I could, but my experiences as an instructor were either on the practice field, the archery range, the pastures, or where science and math were present, and the beautiful thing about those fields of study is the definite lack of essay questions,” said Glorfindel as he packed his pipe. It was an autumn evening on the edge of morning, and while daylight had yet to greet them, it was a promise on the horizon. Glorfindel promised to stay up and keep Fingon company while he graded his first set of essays for a course he had never intended to teach.

Teaching anything at all had never been on Fingon’s mind, but when the Sindarin as a Second Language instructor broke her arm, it left several classes unattended. Replacements were found for all of the daytime pupils, but the evening cohort proved more difficult. Initially a substitute, it was now five weeks in and Fingon sat at a table in the great room with several pages that appeared to have been bled upon. He stabbed the quill into the red ink once again and grumbled as he wrote a lengthy note which boiled down to ‘see me’ before he picked up the sheet and fluttered it about in an attempt to dry the ink faster. “I have no idea how you manage this on a regular basis, Erestor.”

“Two words: Teaching assistant.” Erestor looked up from his book. He had turned in at a reasonable hour, but lacking the familiar feel and sound of someone on either side of him in the bed had him up again a few hours later. “Find a suitable student with a few years to go, train them, and just make sure none of their friends end up in your classes.”

“This is not my fucking class,” Fingon warned quickly. “This is just… I am just there for… stop grinning at me!” he growled as Erestor. 

“I substituted for Elrond once,” recalled Glorfindel as he lit the pipe. He puffed on it a few times before he added, “I never corrected anything they turned in. Just talked a lot about medicinal herbs.”

“I get it. I accidentally adopted them.” Fingon sighed and scribbled another line on the paper before waving it around again. “It would have been unfair to send them all away. However, one would expect that if one is taking a course, one would make an attempt to learn the fucking material or better their skills.”

“You have to remember - a lot of these students are Noldorin. Most of them were raised in strictly Quenya-speaking households. Even those who were not have been told of Elu Thingol and his ban, without the additional mention of kinslayings. There are a lot of them who just think this is nonsense and do what they need to in order to get it over with,” explained Erestor.

Fingon set down the page and stretched his arms over his head. A few faint pops and cracks were heard. “Then why come here? There are dozens of schools on the mainland that do not require knowledge of Sindarin.”

“We cost less,” answered Erestor simply. “The room and board is cheaper, too. Many of them can find employment at the school or nearby. But, we are a tourist destination, so Sindarin - and to an extent, even Westron - are important to know. Will a lot of them return to the mainland? Sure. But we cannot assume that. They need to be prepared if they stay here.”

“I agree. I just disagree with what some of them are doing. Erestor, one of them even plagiarized you,” said Fingon.

Erestor snorted.

“How can you think this is funny?” queried Fingon, but he, too, was smiling. “Did they think because I am some ancient athlete that I never read any fucking books or something? One of them did not even try to move any of the fucking words around or anything.”

“How many do you have in the class?” asked Erestor.

“Thirteen,” Fingon answered.

“Ah, well, there is your problem,” remarked Erestor. “You have an unlucky number. All you need is a hobbit to balance it out.”

“Oh, no. Fuck no. Fuck those fucking hobbits.” And now Fingon was shuffling through the pages, and Glorfindel was laughing mightily. “You were not down here for this shit. You have to hear this… where the fuck is it…”

“One of them wrote something and the word ‘hobbit’ is in there erroneously,” said Glorfindel.

Erestor closed his book. “Seriously?”

Fingon successfully fished out the essay in question and skimmed down to the middle of the page. “Here we go… ‘and for the economy of hobbits the explanation is clear’...that does not fucking make sense. The entire remainder of that paragraph was lifted from a bulletin that was handed out at the school three weeks ago, that I just happened to have a copy of in my satchel. At least if they are going to plagiarize, they should try to find something obscure.”

“I particularly liked that they plagiarized you,” said Glorfindel with a nod and a smoke ring in Erestor’s direction. “They lifted a substantial passage from one of your second age narratives, and just added things like ‘also’ and ‘last but not least’ before the sentences. Which they may have gotten away with, had they not had four different ‘last but not least’s in there.”

Fingon seemed to be making his final notes for the evening, and muttered from his makeshift desk, “And those are just the cheaters. I have one who used their essay as a forum on the ineffectual leadership of King Gil-galad. I am trying to decide whether or not inform them next week that I am the father of that ‘ineffectual leader’, or just wait until the end of the course and let it slip out then.”

“End of the class,” answered Erestor immediately. “Give yourself time to see what other follies they think to indulge you with before you end their fun.”

“You mean how many versions of pissing me off they can manage?” asked Fingon.

“I am going to be perfectly honest - you are adorable when you are angry like this.”

Fingon looked up at Erestor. “This is not anger. This is serious disappointment.”

“Whatever it is, I agree with Erestor,” said Glorfindel. “The whole angry swearing squirrel thing is kind of cute.”

“I am not angry and I am not a squirrel. Why a squirrel?” prodded Fingon, who was cleaning the quill and setting things aside to be dealt with in the morning.

“Like a squirrel you do all of that bounding and bouncing around, so when you are mad, no one can take you seriously. You do all of this ‘fuck this, fuck that, fuck this other fucking thing’ chattering which just…” Glorfindel shrugged and puffed on the pipe. “Angry little squirrel. Too cute for words.”

“Just… fuck you, alright?” he muttered, but the words were affectionate enough. “Fuck your fucking squirrel analogy bullshit thing…”

A chuckle came from Erestor as he retrieved his book and then yawned. “Certainly the most profane squirrel I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

“Oh, fuck you, too, you love it,” mumbled Fingon as he slumped back into the chair.

“So, would you like me to make breakfast for you so that you can march on over there and stand at the door to greet your darling students at the door when they arrive for class, or would you like to try to get some rest before the day dawns?” asked Glorfindel. “If the former, I have a recipe for walnut pancakes you might enjoy.”

“These are evening students,” Fingon reminded him. “I think I have time to at least lounge in bed and enjoy a few squirrel snuggles before I have to be at the library.”

“And what is the difference between regular snuggles and squirrel snuggles?” asked Erestor as he set his book on the shelf and stretched. 

“Squirrel snuggles include the addition of me chattering obscenities that neither of you take seriously.”

“Sounds like fun,” Glorfindel opined. “What do we do if we find a hobbit in the bed?”

“Oh, no. No more hobbits,” warned Fingon. “No more fucking hobbit economics, no theories of the blue wizards being figments of someone’s imagination, no inappropriate repetitive use of obsolete Quenya consonants that have no place in Sindarin because someone has a hard-on for the ‘greatest of the Noldor’ and felt like this was a good outlet for their outpouring of support for the correct pronunciation of Miriel’s name.”

“Ooo, sounds like someone was hitting Fëanor’s shibboleth a little hard,” remarked Erestor as he put an arm around Fingon and led him up the stairs.

“She does not even have a fucking Sindarin name! Who the fuck picks that for their essay for a Sindarin class?” Fingon leaned his head against Erestor’s shoulder as they ascended the stairs. “One of them did not even know my name yet, so he just put down ‘Hîr’ and then the name of the teacher who was teaching before. And I just seriously hope he does not think I am the husband of the original instructor, or that, I do not know, that I magically morphed myself or something and was the teacher before or--.”

“Shhh... I understand.” Erestor rubbed Fingon’s back as they entered the bedroom. “Look at it this way. This assignment is all over and you can start fresh with the next one.”

Fingon gave Erestor a weary look. “I still have three papers to grade.”

Erestor bit his lip. “Oh.” Then he furrowed his brow. “It took you all night to grade ten papers?”

“This is new to me, cupcake. I am a really tiny, angry squirrel mixed up in the world of academia in a way I never intended to be.” As Fingon began to unbraid his hair in order to braid it for bed, Glorfindel entered with a bowl of dried lavender. “I could probably use some guidance - from both of you - on how to proceed. This is far different from coaching. People who cheat in sport are not the sort of people who would ever ask me to coach them.”

“What if we all sit down together tomorrow and look over the expectations for the class? We can help develop a plan for the rest of the course, and maybe we can even help you grade some of it. I think I spent more years of my life speaking Sindarin than Quenya,” said Erestor.

“So did I,” agreed Glorfindel. “I can be there for moral support, but like I said when you started at the beginning of the evening, if there are things you need help with, just tell me. I am happy to assist.”

Fingon sat down on the edge of the bed and began the task of braiding his hair into two plaits, one at each side. He was halfway done with the second when he burst out with, “What the fuck do hobbits have to do with anything? The assignment was to write about a notable Sinda! The fuck were hobbits in there for?”

“Alright, little squirrel, time for bed,” admonished Erestor, who sat down beside Fingon and finished the abandoned braid. “We can talk about hobbits and blue wizards more tomorrow.”

“But wizards are not elves,” whined Fingon as he was tucked into bed.

Glorfindel laughed lightly and went to the other side of the bed, deciding not to bring up the fact he had been displaced and that Fingon was in his usual spot. “Did anyone actually choose a Sinda?” asked Glorfindel despite the warning look Erestor shot him.

Fingon groaned slightly as he snuggled closer to Erestor. “Someone chose Pengolodh, which is half right I guess, but then they kept calling him Quendingoldo the whole time, even though they used Penlod when referring to his father. I just… what is wrong with people?”

Erestor hushed Fingon again, and pulled him closer so that he could kiss the top of his head. Just as Fingon was comfortably nuzzled close, legs entwined, he sat up a little and looked over Erestor’s shoulder at Glorfindel, his eyes narrowed. “When you mentioned those pancakes earlier, that was another squirrel joke,” he accused. Glorfindel smiled and shrugged against the pillow.

“Alright. You can sass him about it in the morning,” advised Erestor as he gently pulled Fingon down again. 

Goodnights were sleepily exchanged, and the candles were extinguished before Glorfindel cuddled up against Erestor’s back and draped an arm around both of his lovers. “Every now and then, can we rile him up like this?” he begged softly into Erestor’s ear. “I can see why he jumps right from calm arguments to livid disagreement. The inbetween is so perfectly pouty and harmless he makes me want to bundle him up and put him in my pocket to take home.”

“Shhh… you are home,” whispered Erestor back.

“I know. So can I?”

Erestor turned his head just slightly, finger to his lips, but the corners of his mouth were turned upward in a way that did not say no.


End file.
